


of unspectacular things

by Eliane



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 11:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane
Summary: "There is a place, or a time, where they don’t meet."or, five vignettes about 2018





	of unspectacular things

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to carlo for the prompt proofreading & to marianna for the hand-holding, the advice & for letting me rant 
> 
> i've been kinda going through an extended writing crisis but also i wanted to write about roger & rafa being in love so here we are. title more or less borrowed from [this poem](http://www.cortlandreview.com/features/18/spring/limon.php) by my girl Ada. as usual this is fiction. all remaining mistakes are mine.

_1.  
_ _Monaco, 27 th February 2018_

There is a place, or a time, where they don’t meet.

For the second time that evening Roger steps on a stage to receive an award and finds himself facing quite a lot of people, searching for what to say _again_. His hold on the statuette tightens as he turns to face Martina and thanks her, uttering the first thing that comes to his mind which is, _because of you I met my wife_. 

He takes in a breath, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, trying not to cry. It’s been more than a year since Melbourne, since that 18th slam and everything that followed, but there are still some days when he wakes up and has to remind himself that it’s not all a dream ready to vanish as soon as he opens his eyes. He takes in a breath and what comes out of his mouth when he exhales is Rafa’s name. Rafa who is probably getting ready for his match while Roger is standing here on the other side of the world. Rafa who could very well have been the one holding this award. Rafa whose laugh was in Roger’s ear this morning.

It was early for him and late for Rafa and Rafa had said, _you are lucky you are in Monaco. I miss the sea._

“Isn’t Acapulco near the ocean?”

Rafa hummed in a way that let Roger know he wouldn’t stay awake for much longer. “Yes, but is not the same, no? Is not like the Mediterranean.”

He was right. Roger leaned on the railing of his hotel room balcony and looked at the bay, at the sea. Even in the middle of winter, there was something warm about the Mediterranean, as if it could never really stop carrying a promise of endless summer days.

“Yeah,” Roger said. “I guess I am.” Then, because he’d never learned when to stop, “Luckier if you were with me, though.”

At that Rafa laughed, something pure and joyous illuminating Roger’s morning in a way the sun couldn’t have. “I have to play tennis, no?”

“Yeah,” Roger agreed. He blinked, unable to forget that the last time he had seen Rafa on a tennis court he had been limping, shaking in anger and distress.  “Of course. First match tomorrow, right?”

There was a pause and Roger’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” Rafa answered, his voice close to a whisper and everything was _fine._ Rafa was tired, that’s all. “I think I am going to sleep soon,” Rafa said, echoing Roger’s thoughts and so they had said goodbye.

Now, hours later, Roger is standing in front of a crowd thanking Rafa for, well, for existing and thinks he wouldn’t know who to thank for meeting Rafa.

( _it’s because of a guy like him, I think I’m a better player._ _he’s an incredible player, incredible friend and incredible athlete)_

Yet there must be someone – or something – to thank because there is a place that’s not this place, or a time that’s not this time, where they don’t meet. Roger knows that because he understands possibilities. That, should he have selected another shot during a crucial point, events might have unfolded in a different way and he might have won the match he just lost. Or might have lost the match he just won. 

In this place, maybe, instead of choosing tennis, Roger chooses football and it’s as simple as that. He doesn’t become world number one at the beginning of 2004, he doesn’t see Rafa on the other side of the court for the first time a few months later. Or maybe Rafa is the one who decides to fulfil his football dreams. Or maybe the bone in his foot never lets him play tennis. Or, or, or. It doesn’t matter, the end result is the same. None of it ever happens and Roger doesn’t stand on a stage, fingers clutching a statuette, Rafa’s sleepy laugh still resounding in his ears, something luminous and bright expanding in his chest, something akin to _gratefulness._

It doesn’t stop after Roger leaves the stage. Why would it? There is champagne to drink and people to talk to and congratulations to receive.  He doesn’t feel on top of the world, not exactly, it’s not like winning a slam, but he is in a buoyant mood and doesn’t pay much attention to his phone, except when taking the obligatory selfies. Which is why he doesn’t see Rafa’s missed calls until he’s back in his hotel room. He frowns and calls Rafa right back, his phone in one hand while he attempts to divest himself with the other. He’s managed to get rid of his dinner jacket and to undo half of his bowtie when Rafa answers.

“Hello,” Rafa says and Roger’s heart drops. He recognizes that voice.

“Hello,” Roger replies. He undoes the other half of his bowtie, before putting it down on the bed next to his awards. Then, “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t bother undressing further. Instead, he opens the window and steps out on the balcony. On the other side of the line, Rafa inhales and Roger braces himself.

“I am not playing the tournament,” Rafa says. And even though Roger had been expecting it, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. “Is the same injury as Australia.” His tone is even, almost steely.

“God, I’m sorry. How… How are you?”

“Tired.”

Rafa doesn’t let out a laugh to soften his answer, doesn’t add anything – a reassurance that it’ll be okay, that he has done it before and can do it again. They both know that. Roger sits down on a chair, elbows on his knees, and takes in the smell of the night, something musky and sharp. The sky that was so clear this morning is pitch black and it would be impossible to distinguish it from the sea Rafa loves so much if not for the stars peppering it.

“Yeah,” Roger acknowledges. It seems like the only thing he can do. “What about Indian Wells and Miami?”

“I don’t know. I have to talk to my doctors.”

“Right,” Roger says.

Rafa sighs. “I don’t think… It does not look good.”

“Right,” Roger repeats, throat tight. “Bet you regret not coming to see me in Rotterdam,” he adds, in an attempt at levity. It’s a terrible joke but Roger hears Rafa snort, stifling something very much like a laugh and he breathes out.

In truth, it’s not… It’s not that he won’t be able to see Rafa soon because he will, because stealing time they shouldn’t be spending together is what they do, it’s that he had been counting on those two full weeks of them being together in the same place, at the same time. He’s aware it’s selfish and he hates himself a little for being this bereft when Rafa is the one hurting but sometimes love is a bit awful like this.

“You can come see me in Paris,” Rafa retorts and Roger giggles.

“Maybe I will. It would certainly make a lot of people here happy. They keep asking me about it, you know.”

“Yeah.” Rafa’s voice is laced with a tenderness that makes every bone in Roger’s body ache. “I know.”

***

_2.  
_ _Paris, 24 th May 2018_

There is a place, or a time, where it’s easier.

The air is hot when Roger steps out of the private car bringing him back to his hotel, way too hot for a May night in Paris. Almost suffocating. It’s not the warmth, though, that bothers Roger but the electric quality there is to it, announcing a storm that hasn’t broken yet. Roger thanks the driver and wishes him a good night, waiting until the car has disappeared to start moving again. He crosses the street and leaves the _Plaza Athénée_ , where his wife and his parents are spending the night, behind him. It’s not his favourite hotel but there’s a reason he chose it, a reason currently sleeping five minutes away from him. Roger quickens his pace.

Getting inside Rafa’s hotel without anyone stopping him or wondering what he’s doing here is easy because he’s had years of practice at doing it and, well, it’s half past two in the morning. The only person awake, except for the security staff, is the receptionist and she’s paid for being discreet. It’s one of the funny things about fame: how it allows you to buy the utmost privacy while trying to rob you of it so completely.

In the lift, Roger doesn’t think about the number of times he’s had to do that, about how tired he is of it. How fucking exhausted. The thrill of secrecy died a decade or so ago and there’s been nothing but growing weariness ever since but there is no other way. Or none that Roger can envision, at least.

There is no hesitation when he reaches Rafa’s floor. He knows which room Rafa is staying in – he was there earlier, after all.  He opens the door with the card Rafa gave him and lets himself in. The light emanating from the bedside lamp is just bright enough for Roger to make out the lean lines of Rafa’s body under the sheets. From where Roger is standing, Rafa looks very peaceful and maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe Roger should get out – no matter how much he has missed Rafa, no matter how much he is going to miss him in the month to come – and go back to his own hotel room. Mirka should still be awake and –

Rafa shifts. It’s nothing, a movement so faint that most people would miss it but a good part of Roger’s career has been spent watching Rafa’s every gesture and, anyway, he isn’t most people. He also notices that there is no noise coming from Rafa and that’s _good_ , that means it’s not the pain, waking him up. Rafa shifts again, unmistakably so this time, and that’s that. Roger takes off his jacket and his shirt, throwing them in the general direction of the armchair and walks toward the bed. There, he sits down and removes the rest of his clothes before turning around. Rafa is curled on his side, watching him.

“Hey,” Rafa says. Or so Roger guesses because what comes out of Rafa’s mouth is more of a yawn than a word. 

“Hey baby,” Roger replies, kissing the corner of Rafa’s mouth.

“What time is it?” Rafa asks, his words more distinct now.

“Almost three.”

“I wake up at eight,” Rafa says. It’s not a reproach, though. If anything, it sounds like a question.

“I know.” 

For a few seconds, it looks like Rafa might add something but, in the end, he chooses not to. His features relax, the wrinkles on his brow less pronounced, and he sighs.

“We could have breakfast together,” Roger suggests, because it’s easier than acknowledging that what they’re doing is a bit absurd. Is a bit mad. 

“Okay,” Rafa agrees. He kisses the tender spot at the juncture of Roger’s neck and his jaw. “You did not tell me. How was the event?” Rafa asks, moving slightly so that his head is resting against Roger’s shoulder, his mouth brushing against Roger’s skin. Roger wraps an arm around his waist and entangles their legs, relishing the feel of their bodies pressed against one another. “You bring me a bottle of champagne?”

Roger barks out a laugh. “No, no bottle of champagne. I’m afraid we sold them all.”

Rafa sniffs in disappointment. It’s impressive how he somehow manages to radiate disapproval while naked, in Roger’s arms.  “This is good for the event. Not so good for me, no?”

“You don’t even really like champagne,” Roger points out, trying his hardest not to look indignant because he knows Rafa is having him on.

“No?” Rafa challenges. He tilts his head back and their eyes meet.

“No.”

Rafa cracks first. He laughs, unaltered joy kind of splitting his face in two, and Roger follows, unable to resist Rafa’s happiness, unable to resist Rafa. Roger kisses him mid laugh and Rafa lets out a surprised noise before opening his mouth to Roger’s. They kiss, lazy and warm and content, aware that it won’t go anywhere but taking satisfaction in the familiarity of it, in its gentleness. The kiss slows down until it’s nothing more than a press of lips and Roger says,

“We should go to sleep.”

Rafa nods in response, stifling a yawn. Roger waits for him to turn around so they can settle in their usual position, Rafa’s back to Roger’s chest, Roger’s fingers curled around Rafa’s hip. But Rafa doesn’t. He stays like this, facing Roger, and Roger doesn’t have to ask why he wants it that way. He understands all too well.

So Rafa falls asleep and Roger doesn’t. He’s still riding the adrenaline high that comes with hosting an important event and the humid warmth outside seems to be permeating the atmosphere of the room, even with the windows closed, making Roger feel sticky and restless. To be honest, he’s amazed that Rafa is managing to sleep. Exhaustion, he guesses.

Softly, careful not to disturb Rafa, Roger lets his fingers wander across Rafa’s body. He draws invisible and senseless pictures, his touch feather-light, and the thoughts he had tried so hard to ignore earlier are back. He doesn’t have the strength to push them away anymore. One of his hands ends up settling on Rafa’s chest and the steady, oh so comforting beat of Rafa’s heart echoes under Roger’s palm. His other hand lands on Rafa’s thigh and Roger spreads his fingers so that they are almost touching Rafa’s knee. Almost. Not quite. Funny, how Rafa’s knees seem more fragile to Roger than his heart.

There is a place, or a time, where it’s easier.

There, Roger doesn’t have to walk through the corridors of a hotel that isn’t his in the middle of the night. There, it’s not so hard to find time to be together and when Roger kisses Rafa hello, his throat isn’t already filled with goodbyes. There, Roger doesn’t try to detect the shadow of pain in every sound, every gesture Rafa makes.

There, Roger isn’t sure they’re happier. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? They are happy. So much, in fact, it sometimes feels indecent – when Roger’s mere presence can make Rafa smile in a way that lights up an entire room. When Rafa’s mere presence can make Roger feel younger, his movements sharper, his feet lighter. When the two of them together create their own little world, something so intimate it leaves space for no one else.

Roger has never cared much about easy anyway.

***

_3.  
_ _Wimbledon, 11 th July 2018_

If there is a place, or a time, where it’s easier, Roger supposes it’s inevitable that there is one where it’s harder.

He’s in the bedroom, sitting on his mattress, and he’s not hiding, per se, but he wants to be left alone for a while – to be sad, to be angry, to be able to _breathe_. The only fault in this plan is his phone which keeps vibrating. He knew he should have left it in the living room or in the kitchen or anywhere else instead of bringing it here with him. If it were anyone else calling he would ignore it but it’s not anyone. It’s Rafa.

Roger stares at his phone. He’s not angry with Rafa nor does he resent him for doing what Roger couldn’t do but he does resent the situation. It’s stupid and childish and he’s aware of it, he is, but he wishes for one moment that things were simple. That his feelings were simple. That there was nothing but joy at the idea of Rafa reaching the semis for the first time in so long instead of the complicated mix of disappointment and pain (for him), relief and pride (for Rafa) currently tightening his throat and making him want to scream a little. But that’s not how it is and his phone is still vibrating, Rafa’s name on the screen bright and impossible to miss, because Roger is in love with the one person that will always manage to be more stubborn than him. Right.

“Rafa, hello,” he says. He can’t help it; it comes out soft – tenderness bleeding out from the places where he isn’t hurting.

“Roger,” Rafa’s tone is soft too, albeit in a different way, careful and cautious, and something settles inside Roger. He takes in the familiarity of Rafa’s voice in his ear, the comfort of his accent curling around the letters that form Roger’s name, how lovely it is. Rafa goes on, “I am not bothering you long. I just wanted… I need…”

“I’m fine,” Roger says, interrupting him.

He recalls being in the same position last year, standing in his bedroom with Rafa on the phone except it was a Monday, instead of a Wednesday, and it was him searching for words to comfort Rafa with, not the other way around. He wonders who will be comforting the other, next year. Why they chose a sport where one of them will always be in need of comforting. He doesn’t say any of this.

On the other side of the line, Rafa makes a sceptical noise. “I mean I will be,” Roger amends. “You know.”

“Yeah.” Rafa laughs but there’s something raw about it. “I did not think…”

“No,” Roger says. “Me neither.” Because, although it had been a possibility, he hadn’t thought he would lose _today_. Somehow hearing Rafa almost utter it out loud is more reassuring than any of the other attempts at making him feel better he’s had to deal with tonight. Rafa understands. Which is why, maybe, he kept calling until Roger answered. Why Roger _did_ answer. Why he chooses to ask his next question. “Do you… Do you ever think that maybe there’s another place where it’s easier?” 

“Easier?” Rafa repeats, puzzled.

“Yeah.” And god. He must be exhausted to try explaining something he has never told anyone, something he thought he would never tell anyone, least of all Rafa. But he can’t stop now. “Like, for us. Do you ever think that there’s another place, or another world, where it’s easier?”

There’s a long pause. Then, “Roger… Don’t.” Rafa sounds a bit sorry, a bit heartbroken. Like he understands exactly what Roger is talking about, like he has pondered the same thing.

This time, Roger doesn’t ask. He nods instead, even though Rafa can’t see him and says, “Okay. Okay.”

“I…” Rafa hesitates. “I see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Roger answers. “Sure. We haven’t made plans about leaving yet.”

“Okay, I see you tomorrow then. And Roger?”

“Yes?”

“I am sorry.”

“Thank you,” Roger says.

They bid each other goodbye and it’s only after they hang up that Roger realises he hasn’t even congratulated Rafa or said anything, truly. He swallows his hurt and his regrets and sends a text that will seem too bland and generic when he rereads it the day after.  Without pausing to think about it he sends a second text, **_I love you._**

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He gets up, leaving his phone on the bed, and gets out of the room. Outside, the house is quiet. He finds Mirka alone in the living room, curled on the sofa, frowning at her phone. Seve and Ivan must have left while he was busy not hiding. Roger doesn’t believe he makes any noise as he heads toward the sofa but Mirka still tilts her head back in his direction and catches his gaze. The first thing she says is, “You spoke with Rafa?” and Roger’s steps falter.

“How?” He’s too stunned to form a proper sentence.

Mirka shrugs. “You seem lighter. Like someone has taken a weight off your shoulders. There are… There are only two people who can do that.” She smiles but it wouldn’t take much for it to turn into a grimace.  “One of them is me and I wasn’t with you in that bedroom.”

“I… Yes. We spoke. I mean, he called me.”

Mirka nods, her features doing a complicated thing, expression hovering between satisfaction – that she was right – and hurt. There’s nothing Roger can say to comfort her because, _I’m sorry he did what you couldn’t do_ , would be calloused at best, cruel at worst and Roger isn’t cruel. Or at least never deliberately so.

“The kids are asleep?”

“In theory,” Mirka replies in a tone that implies she doesn’t care much for that theory to be disproven.

Roger chuckles. “Right. I’ll go check on them.”

As it happens the boys are sleeping soundly. Everything is fine and Roger kisses their brows before retreating. When he opens the door leading to the girls’ room, he’s met with one pair of open eyes and a wide-awake Myla. Roger casts one quick glance at her sister but Charlene does appear to be sleeping.

“Hey,” he whispers. He kneels down next to Myla’s bed, ignoring the pain that flashes through his back. “Not tired?”

She shakes her head no.

“Something bothering you?”

She shrugs, a gesture so similar to the one her mother did a few minutes ago it leaves him breathless. Then, very quietly, “Are you okay?”

And, _oh_. “I’m fine,” Roger smiles, bright and bright and bright as his heart shatters. He presses a butterfly kiss in her hair. “Papa’s fine.”

Yes, Roger supposes. There must be a place, or a time, where it’s harder. It doesn’t make this one any less suffocating.

***

_4.  
_ _New York, 26 th August 2018_

There is a place, or a time, where it doesn’t happen.

The thing is, Roger isn’t supposed to be there. Or, to be precise, he’s not supposed to still be there. It’s all been decided – they are to avoid each other in public, as much as they can, for a long list of reasons that boils down to this one: they, he and Rafa, are too much. Oh, there had been other arguments made during the discussion, catch phrases uttered like _public image_ and _narratives_ , but Roger isn’t an idiot and he knows. He has abided by it so far, mostly because he can’t summon the strength to fight it on top of everything else, but practice has been running late today and he isn’t going to flee. He’s not going to run away like he did something wrong just to avoid being seen with Rafa in front of a few journalists and photographers.

Which is why he is now standing in the middle of Arthur Ashe stadium shaking Roig’s hand while Rafa next to him is staring at him half-bemused, half-annoyed. Well, too bad. Roger’s annoyed too. The whole thing is incongruous, especially considering that Rafa was in his bed, very much naked and not looking aggravated in the least, less than twenty-four hours ago and Roger would laugh but there isn’t anything funny about this, is there?

So Roger doesn’t rush his exit. He sits on the bench, stealing glances at Rafa who is beginning to warm up. From the corner of his eye, he watches the way Rafa moves on the court – quick and sharp and always precise – and it’s as familiar as breathing, as comforting as hearing a well-loved song you haven’t listened to in a while and realising you remember every lyric. God. Rafa’s right there and Roger misses him. Roger has half a mind to close the distance that separates them, to reach for Rafa, to make him turn around and… And that’s where the fantasy stops. Roger blinks.

On the court, Rafa is outwardly ignoring him, although it doesn’t quite work. Or maybe it does – for people who aren’t Roger. But Roger can feel the effort it takes Rafa not to turn toward him, not to look at him, not to acknowledge his presence in any way.

Roger stands up, his earlier annoyance gone. He makes his way out of the stadium, quick and quiet, and doesn’t try to catch Rafa’s gaze.

The ride back to the house he’s renting is uneventful – his phone silent.  The hot and humid air coming in through the open windows reminds him of an almost sleepless night in Paris and it suddenly seems like a lot of things since then went wrong. Or maybe it happened before, when Roger stood in front of a crowd thanking Rafa while Rafa’s body was letting him down once more. And maybe _wrong_ is not the right word. Maybe it’s more that they are vulnerable again now, when for a little while, it had felt like nothing could get to them. Like they could go on winning and standing very close to each other, touching and laughing, and get away with it. He should have known better. 

Once inside the house, Roger drops his keys on the kitchen counter and settles on a stool.  There are obvious signs of people having eaten lunch scattered throughout the kitchen but he doesn’t see anyone nor does he hear anything. Mirka and the kids must have gone out, then. He’s considering whether he should text Mirka and join them or take a nap when his phone starts vibrating. 

“This was stupid,” Rafa says, not bothering with a greeting.

“Was it?” Roger replies, and it comes out more tired than upset.

Rafa must sense it because he relents, “I’m sorry. I do not want to fight.”

Roger sighs. “Yeah, I’m sorry too. I just… I miss you.”

“Roger, you see me yesterday,” Rafa points out, disregarding their earlier meeting.

Roger emits a small laugh. There’s something soothing about Rafa’s blatant dismissal of the metaphorical as well as something painful. Rafa is good at this. At denying himself, at pretending that things are fine – or will be – when they obviously aren’t and it hurts Roger a little to know that this way of viewing things has been in part shaped by all the suffering he’s had to endure, one Roger doesn’t believe he can imagine. And maybe that’s why Roger can’t do it, why he keeps wanting to touch Rafa in front of photographers and journalists after it’s been denied to him, why he feels so fucking _exhausted_. Not the kind of exhaustion that can be cured by sleep but the kind that comes with the awareness that there is no real end to this thing that’s gnawing away at him. That he must live with it.

“Hmm. I did, didn’t I? I still miss you.”

“I know,” Rafa answers this time and it sounds very much like, _I miss you too_. Roger’s heart clenches. What will happen the day Rafa reaches the end of his ability to withstand?

Then, the unmistakable noise of a car braking in front of the house reaches Roger.

“I have to go. Talk to you later?”

“Yes,” Rafa says, soft and quiet. “For sure.”

Roger hangs up before he can do something stupid like saying _I miss you_ for the third time in less than ten minutes. The door opens, children and cries and chaos rushing in. Roger draws in a breath, exhales and puts on a smile.

In another place, or another time, it doesn’t happen.

They meet yet Roger never kisses Rafa for the first time. His hands never grip Rafa’s hipbones, intent on bringing him closer, his fingers never dig in Rafa’s flesh, needy and desperate, his palms never linger on Rafa’s chest, in an attempt to capture the rhythm of his heartbeats. His mouth never brushes against Rafa’s temple, his tongue never licks the sweat pearling at the nape of Rafa’s neck, his teeth never graze the tender skin of Rafa’s inner thigh. They never fall asleep together sticky and uncaring, trying to get closer, closer, closer still. They never spend the night pressed against each other, legs and hands and dreams entwined. They never wake up and decide to stay in bed a little longer. Just this once. Just a bit.

This, Roger finds out, he can’t imagine at all.

***

 

_Coda.  
_ _Chicago, 21 st September 2018_

There are a few things Roger didn’t think of when he came up with a team competition. Like how much he would end up enjoying it or how many people it would entail – not only the players and their coaches but also their families and friends – or how hard it would therefore be to locate a secluded spot so he can call Rafa _in peace_. Of course, he didn’t have that problem the year before. The shared locker room is a no, as is the players’ lounge and there isn’t one lone deserted corridor in the whole arena. The place is swarming with people. So Roger finds himself sitting in a rather cramped and dusty supply closet, hoping that no one will open it while he’s in there. It was that or the toilets and Roger wants to hold onto what little dignity he has left.    

“Roger?” Rafa sounds sleepy and confused.

“Am I waking you up? I’m sorry.”

“Is fine,” Rafa says. “But I am not hearing you well.”

“Right,” Roger replies, realizing that he is whispering. Louder, he says, “I’m, ah. I’m in a broom closet, sorry.”

Roger can _hear_ Rafa’s disbelief.  “Okay,” Rafa says, choosing not to comment. “Why are you calling?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“It is four in the morning for me and you are in a closet,” Rafa points out helpfully. Ah. 

There are a number of reasons why Roger could be calling. Last year Rafa was with him, next to him, at almost every moment of the weekend and his absence is a dull ache, something Roger can’t talk about with anyone, no matter how many times he ends up mentioning Rafa’s name. Roger misses him. Roger wants to hear his voice.

“I was just thinking about how lucky I am, you know. That’s what I wanted to say. I am so very lucky.”

“Because you play doubles with Novak?” Rafa’s tone is playful but Roger can discern a hint of wariness in it. He guesses he’s not the only one who is tired.

He lets out a laugh which morphs into a cough, the air saturated with dust. “No,” he says when he can speak again. “Because I have you.”

“Oh,” Rafa breathes out. “Yes. That is lucky.”

Roger doesn’t need to see him to know that he’s smiling – the too wide and a bit manic smile he graces Roger with when can’t quite believe he exists. And Roger smiles back, sitting here, in this tiny cupboard.

Here, in the place where they meet.


End file.
